


The Winter Rogue

by this_is_the_end



Series: The Winter Rogue (Story and Drabbles) [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Basically there might be some triggers, I'll try to put warnings in each chapter but, Just a heads up anyway, M/M, PTSD (if thats the right term?), Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, angsty, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4741976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_the_end/pseuds/this_is_the_end
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before his life as the Inquisitor, he was trapped in white and drowning in red. He was chained to a past that he tries to ignore - the nightmares still plague him and his throat can barely hold back his screams. Before his life as Inquisitor, he was abused and mistreated.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Beowulf tastes lighting when they meet. He feels it sizzle across his skin and can feel the energy pooling in his spine. He hears thunder roar when the warrior cries out in battle - when the warriors' axe connects with flesh, he hears the thunder roll across the horizon and boil into a flash of lightning. The first time the man speaks to him it is whiskey running down to his fingertips and it is smoke clouding his judgement. When they lock eyes, it is pure energy snapping between them."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a prologue to give a hint to some of Beowulf's background

The white snow stung. It burned in his eyes and ripped at his skin. It piled at his feet and soaked through his boots. His toes turned blue and the chill sank straight to his heart. His fingers were frozen, his heart barely beating. The white stung and blurred his vision.  


"You did this to her."  


The words clotted with blood in the back of his throat and bit through his nerves. They stung him razor sharp with each chilled breath of winter air. A hand pressed to his shoulder, warm bruises boiling to the surface - acid peeling away his flesh. His mind went blank as his vision seared red and feet tangled into rope in front of his face. A pale neck was broken and bleeding. Alcohol breaths clenched through sharp teeth and soured the air around him and his choked denial.  


"You ruined this."  


The picture of a "perfect family" swarmed his head. They stood black silhouettes in the falling white and the mother smiled. The father kissed all worries away as the child's laughter danced on the wind. They smiled and laughed and their love was not crushed.  


A fist connected with his jaw and he was on the ground. Snow pressed against him, white molding around him and pulling him in. White turned into sheets and bruises boiled on his thighs as teeth bit his ribcage. Bodies molded together and hands grabbed his horns and pulled him back - their horns created sandpaper, going straight through his spine.  


"You are an abomination."  


 Irony kissed at his neck, bit at his ears, pushed him against white sheets. White hair tangled and pooled around him. Cold steel eyes locked with his. Irony smiled at him and placed a bitter kiss.  


"You killed her."  


Red hair blew around a noose outside his window. Mother's heart was blackened and still. Steel eyes chilled him to the bone.  


Chains kept him tied to this house as white ate him alive.


	2. Whiskey-Warrior and Rolling Waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took me like three tries to get right and now I love it. So, I hope you enjoy it too.
> 
> I am not sure if the rest of the story will be continued in this style of writing - I hope it will be, but I also hope to make the chapters longer and sometimes that changes my writing style that I use.
> 
> Don't think there need to be any warnings in this chapter. If you feel like I should add a warning, just let me know. Enjoy!

Beowulf tastes lighting when they meet. He feels it sizzle across his skin and can feel the energy pooling in his spine. He hears thunder roar when the warrior cries out in battle - when the warriors' axe connects with flesh, he hears the thunder roll across the horizon and boil into a flash of lightning. The first time the man speaks to him it is whiskey running down to his fingertips and it is smoke clouding his judgement. When they lock eyes, it is pure energy snapping between them.

Beowulf is made of horns and green eyes and dark skin. He is made of freckles and hesitant movements. Bull can see it the first time they meet. Beowulf moves with a rigid spine and soft footsteps. He makes no noise and hides behind his bow - he shoots things with shaking fingers and the whole earth vibrates under his feet with his anxiety. Bull can see this all the first time they meet and immediately he can feel the pure emotion. Bull can tell that Beowulf is made of nightmares and a rough past.

The first battle they share is tough. Bull can see the group coming out of the corner of his eye and so do the enemies. They run at the approaching party and Bull can only let loose a rumbling war cry. It was warning enough because then there is an arrow through a skull and a sword through ribs and the group had jumped straight into the fighting. The Chargers are a wall of defenses impossible to break and they know what they are doing. They are a team already in motion - the group that slid down the mountain is a group that is rigid with lack of trust.

Each arrow that Beowulf sends cutting through the air is another that lands in flesh. He can taste the blood on his tongue, mixing with the rain and the salt of the sea. With each arrow, he is plunging himself deeper into a war that he had no tie to originally. He is feeding his guilt that is building and burning like a fire. Across the battlefield, he can tell that the whiskey-warrior is studying him. He stares back with his nightmares caught in his throat.

The battle ends and there is silence. The whiskey-warrior calls to his Chargers and they answer with rowdy excitement. Beowulf thinks of the mercenaries he was raised with and then he cringes. He shuffles his feet because he wants Cassandra to take control of this situation but she is cleaning her sword and smiling at the blood that falls off it. He wants her to talk politics and Inquisition with these men and women because he is no leader. He was meant to be in the shadows and be hidden and be a nobody. The title "somebody" is not one that fits atop his horns comfortably.

"So, you're with the Inquisition, huh?" The whiskey voice is talking to him and cotton has plugged his ears. His head rings as his eyes widen and he looks at the man in shock at being spoken to. His hands shake slightly before he can form fists and shove them against the small of his back. He grits his jaw and he puts on a mask.

"Your man Krem said that you were offering help to the Inquisition." Beowulf says in an accent that he had practiced to escape. He wants to gag as the words emerge from his throat because they are _fake_ and they are not him. Instead, he bites his cheek and waits with even eyes as the storm-warrior calculates him. He is a complex algorithm and he wonders if the warrior could ever possibly have a clue of what he was. Eventually, the one eye slides back to his and the lightning cracks against both of them.

Beowulf listens with ears still full of cotton. His head is still ringing even as the lightning slides down to his toes and his lungs cave in. The title of "somebody" sits atop his horns as a crown and he listens as the whiskey-warrior pledges his allegiance to the Inquisition and the "Herald of Andraste." He listens and wonders why Cassandra hasn't dropped another book in front of them and taken control of the situation. He wonders why Varric is staying so silent and why Solas has had so little to say. He wonders when they all agreed to put him at the top on a throne that he didn’t even want. The lightning sparks again and this time it leaves a flash of white pulsing against his eyes.

"We'd be honored to have you, Iron Bull." And then there is a name to pin to the warrior. A name that fits every inch of his muscular form and Beowulf wonders if names were ever able to fit so good. He wonders if his fits but then knows that his name is a lie - there is a noose around a neck that tells him that every time he closes his eyes. There is a white fist that silences him every time his heart beats.

"There's one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off." The Iron Bull is talking and Beowulf nods. Curiosity spikes into his throat and finally his shoulders fill with something other than stress and tension. "You ever heard of the Ben-Hasserath?"

Beowulf averts his eyes as white consumes him completely. "Only a little." He lies through his teeth with the fake accent and the fake voice. He lies because there is white suffocating him and the only thing he can think is _not him too_.

The Iron Bull begins to explain in words that suggest he _knows_ and Beowulf flinches at that. He looks to the warrior again and hears thunder rumble in the distance. His hands unclench and he is enraptured by the other man. The Iron Bull keeps explaining and at the end of it all, the only words Beowulf can find himself capable of saying are "Yes, welcome to the Inquisition."

 

 


	3. Counting the Lack of Responses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter isn't my favorite simply because it didn't accomplish all of what I wanted it to, but I like it nonetheless. I might edit this and re-post it, but that all depends on what I do with the next chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

Bull counts Beowulf's freckles. With every conversation outside the small tent, he finds another hidden on the dark expanse of the rogue's skin. They cover his cheeks and wrap around to his ears - Bull can see one right on the pointed tip. With each conversation they have, he finds himself lost in the numbers and the counting. If Beowulf notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Bull counts Beowulf's footsteps. Each one is slow and robotic on the snow. There is a rigidity to the man's bones when he curls into the white and composes himself into the Herald. Bull counts Beowulf's footsteps and wonders what ghosts he is hiding from. In the white of Haven, it takes Beowulf 30 steps to raise his head. In the green of the Hinterlands, it takes him 5. If Beowulf notices, he doesn't say anything.

Bull counts the conversations they have. The first few are composed of formal questions and obligations to get to know each other better. Those conversations are meant to create the trust that so clearly does not exist. Bull counts the words the Herald says and wonders when it will be Beowulf that he gets to know. The Herald's words are calculated and laced with an accent that doesn’t quite belong to the face. So, Bull counts. Bull counts the words until Beowulf flirts with him with a well-placed wink and his counting drops straight into the snow. Bull counts the breaths between those words and his reply and is startled to count 5. If Beowulf notices, he doesn't say anything.

Bull counts the days between his conversation with Beowulf and their next encounter. He counts the steps it takes Beowulf to get to his tent and then he counts their breaths. When Beowulf makes another flirtatious remark, Bull counts the seconds the smile lasts. 17. The Bull counts the freckles on Beowulf's forearm and wonders if there are more hidden away somewhere like skeletons in his closet.

~

Beowulf counts the days he has been a prisoner. 25. He counts each day he has to brave the world as the Herald and each day that his mark attempts to kill him. He counts each day and scribbles them down on a piece of parchment he had stolen from a mage's notebook somewhere. He counts each word he writes as he attempts to keep himself alive. He wants the world to know that he was a Qunari and that his horns could not be erased. The Chantry wants to disagree.

Beowulf counts the conversations he has with Cassandra - he wants to pin the word "arguments" on them instead but can't bring himself to be mad at her. Not really. He counts the times she tells him that he is the only hope for all of Thedas. 23. He wants to believe her but those words don’t sit right in his chest and he can't be a Chosen One because he doesn’t believe in the Maker. Gods don’t play _this_ type of prank, after all.

Beowulf counts the snowflakes. He counts them as they drown him and as they eat him alive. He counts then when he can't breathe and when counting is the only thing that makes any sense. He counts them as they fall in front of Bull and then he counts the ones that land on his horns. He counts the times Bull laughs and relishes in the rolling sound rushing out of the man's chest. Slowly, he stops counting the snowflakes. Instead, they creep under his skin and chase down his spine but he can only count laughter.

Beowulf counts the arrows that sink through skulls. He counts the lives he takes because counting the lives that depend upon him would be too much. He counts the bloodied clothes he peels off his body and he counts the times he pulls an arrow from a corpse. He counts the times that Bull's axe sinks into flesh and he counts each time the warrior rumbles laughter across the battlefield. He counts the times they lock eyes and then he begins to count scars. He counts the pale lines as they stretch across the warriors skin and he counts how many stories there are buried in the man's memories. He counts them meticulously because he vows that Bull will not get another on his watch. He counts the pale lines and wants to trace their winding patterns.

Beowulf doesn't count the times he slips through the appearance of "Herald" and flirts with Bull. He doesn't count the times that his heart skips a beat and he doesn’t count the times he catches Bull watching him. He doesn't count the times he begins to hope again and he shoves that feeling away as if it was venom.

Instead, he counts the nightmares. He circles back to counting the days and he wonders when his last will come. He circles back to counting arguments and conversations - he counts stories with Varric - and he avoids the skipping-heart-syndrome known as Bull. He counts arrows with Sera and even tries to laugh. Those are fake. He doesn't count the real laughter with Bull because Bull is a conundrum.

Beowulf doesn't count the times he stares back at Bull and the skipped beats of his heart.


	4. Litanies of Appellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like how this turned out. I am still trying to work on the plot of this story, but I think that this chapter spurred it in the right direction. Hopefully that means that the quality of these chapter will increase once I get the plot flowing. Until then, please bear with the awkward in between phase and let me know what you think.  
> Enjoy!

There were prayers for this sort of situation. There are prayers for the damned that beg redemption and there are prayers that speak to the stars. Beowulf thinks that maybe he should start believing - the _Maker_ was leagues better than deities his demented father had worshipped. The Maker was the figment his mother had prayed to every night with silken red hair - but _He_ had abandoned her with a noose around her neck and demons in her chest so why should Beowulf give the Maker anything but damnation?

There were prayers so close on his tongue as he begged for this all to be a lie - the sky was torn _open_ and surely that should be some joke, shouldn't it? He wanted to wake in the Fade and suddenly know that the whole world was still on its axis and that there was hope - there were prayers meant for this sort of thing. He wanted to believe but his false voice could never put into words his desperation and complete loneliness.

"The mages could make promising allies -" Josephine's singsong voice is soft on feathered wings but Cullen cuts her off with sharp words that could have been a sword and Beowulf averts his eyes.

" _I_ was a Templar - I know what they are capable of!" Cullen spits and his determination is admirable but deep in the undertones of the conversation, everyone already knows what Beowulf will choose. They already know that the oppressed side with the oppressed and they can practically see it in his face. He knows deep in his heart that there is logic behind choosing the mages - _Magic_ for fuck's sake - but there is an _army_ within the stone walls of the Templar ranks.

He leaves it ambiguous and exits the room with ghosts still looming over his shoulders. He wants more than anything to resign his position of power that he has been given so begrudgingly - he wants to sear the Mark from his hand and dangle the blood in front of everyone's faces. _See what you have done to me!_ But then kindness reenters his heart and he wonders if ever there was a time when he could have been cold and ruthless - if ever there was a time when he could have solved it all without shedding a single tear.

"Hey, Boss." The whiskey-voice is there and it is only then that Beowulf realize how far he has walked. He hadn't been counting his steps for once but as he looked up the white consumed him. He rapidly looked for Bull, for the black and solid amongst the liquid white, but his heart was already in his throat and there was nothing he could do to stop the thoughts. "You alright, Boss?"

And before he can think, confessions are pressing against his chest and begging to be set free. Before he can think he has found Bull amongst the white and he is something that Beowulf can finally hold onto. Before he can breathe he knows that the expression on his face is a mixture of panic and pleading. "Never been better." He mutters through closed teeth.

Bull's eye only narrows slightly. "You sure, Boss?"

And the way that Bull gives him that title is something that weighs on his shoulders and he begins to buckle underneath the weight. The way that Bull says it so honestly, so colloquially, has him melting and shaking against the white. He was never meant to be this - he was never meant to have this authority. The way that Bull says the word is enough to send goose bumps down his arms.

"Yeah. Thanks, Bull." And their eyes lock and if Beowulf hadn’t meant that he was okay he sure as hell meant _Thank you_. He turned away with slow movements and felt his feet begin to crunch through the snow again. That was before a hand settled on his wrist.

Suddenly, the world was black and he was shaking. There was white hair and white eyes and white _skin pushing down on him_ and forming white scars. There was white outside the window as he was tied to tangled white sheets. There were white eyes that stared into his shattered and mangled soul and green eyes that watched from the kitchen with a look of horror. There were shaking hands trying to push away but there were stronger hands holding his wrists down. The world was spinning in white.

" _Let go_." Beowulf managed as he twisted his wrist desperately. He couldn't see anything in this reality because it had blurred and gone. Bull let go instantaneously, his whole body filling with questions. Beowulf was shaking as he turned and tried to escape the nightmare.

"Boss -"

And there was that title again, shoving down on his shoulders. The title that was said like a prayer whispered on parched lips. The title that was too grandiose to be said as anything less than a mantra repeated over and over again in a garden full of roses. The title that rattled in his rib-cage and threatened his world to come crashing down.

"Sorry-Sorry Bull. I just -" But the sentence was left incomplete in ragged breaths. There were shards of glass in his lungs. He pulled away and into the snow, footsteps crunching uncharacteristically loud against the white. The gates of Haven had never loomed so high. There were shadows eating away at the stones and tendrils that reached for him. He could still feel the fingers around his wrist, pressing into his bones.

~

The prayers he said that night were said with numb lips. His flesh could barely form the words but his soul so desperately needed to. The fire burning in his flesh desperately needed to be released but he hadn't any coping mechanisms. Prayers to a deity that he didn't believe in seemed to have a certain sense of irony in their heavily laced meaning.

The prayers he said that night were a desperate attempt to get answers to the life he had no desire to live. The prayers were a bandage to place over any wounds he could have caused by his actions with Bull - his prayers were a hope that he had not lost the single star in his life. The lightning that cracked across his dark and gloomy sky.

The prayers were said repeatedly to a deity he did not believe in. They were said to a deity that had given him nothing and would continue to give him nothing. He said them to soothe his heart and speak of something other than nightmares. He said them because he so desperately _needed_ to believe.


	5. Lacuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lacuna: a gap or missing part_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter - I am finally advancing the plot and actually have an idea of where to go from here. Hope you enjoy!

Diplomacy was silver tongues dancing around the truth and failing to bend the grey clouds into the pure silver lining. Rebel mages were the stain on the Chantry's existence and the thorns in their sides - the twisted and pulled but the rose had bloomed and no one saw the hope that it offered. They pulled free its petals and boiled them down to red blood that ran between their fingertips and over their weapons. Diplomacy was their funeral. Weeks bled red together and there were not possibly enough silver tongues to spin the web of lies that could keep the Inquisition afloat.

"Biggest problem for the Inquisition right now isn't on the front line. It's at the top." Bull was observant and knew how to get every aspect of body language to sing to him. He didn't wrap it in fancy words that were meant to deceive - he said it plain and read the reactions just as thoroughly as before. Those were what would give him his answer. "You've got no leader. No Inquisitor."

The first reaction was panic - _not me not me not me_ \- and then it was a tight jaw and a calculated question. "Do we really need one?" He doesn’t ask because he wants to know, he asks because he can't avoid the truth.

Bull responds by stepping closer with an attentive eye. Beowulf watches with eyes that try to hide the truth, eyes wide with fear and shaking pupils, and tries to find comfort in the fact that he is the same height as Bull. He tries to find comfort in the fact that their horns won't touch and that there won't be any sandpaper tonight.

"You wanna talk about what happened last time?"

And he doesn't need to specify because Beowulf knows. The details are all that he has been able to think about and they are the only thing that he has been able to trace upon his skin. They are the only thing that he has been able to obsess over and hope that he hadn’t said something wrong - but before he can come to a conclusion, there is always white there to stop his comfort. There is white standing before him now as reality blurs momentarily and he is left facing a ghost.

"Trick question." Beowulf deadpans back because his voice is strong enough only for sarcasm to hide the rest of it. "Should never ask what I want."

And the look that takes over Bull's features is unreadable. There is something hidden beneath the rough exterior of rough scars and war stories and Beowulf can't read it. He bites his cheek and wishes that he could take back those words, too, because somehow everything he says is poison.

"Don't know who taught you that." Bull says gruffly, seeming to recover his voice. He shifts his weight and presses just an inch closer. Beowulf finds he is unable to step away. "I should knock their heads around."

Beowulf feels his breath catch in his throat and his eyes widen and his mask crack away. He feels himself slip through the Herald and finds himself watching Bull with a rapid heart and shocked body language. He closes his jaw and manages to avoid sinking his teeth down on his lip. Beowulf takes a step back then, trying to shake Bull from his vision.

"Don't say that." Beowulf manages in a small voice and then he lowers his head. He watches as Bull's feet press closer in the snow - _one, two, three_ \- and then there is a presence right in front of him. Not touching - _he learned last time didn't he_ \- but pressed into Beowulf's space as much as possible.

"Why not?" Bull asks. An innocent enough question when applied to something other than Beowulf's past and his trembling lungs. An innocent question when not said inches from another Qunari that has never been touched with anything other than malice. An innocent question when not asked with scarred lips that strike home a little too personally.

"Because I asked you not to." Beowulf raises his head and his eyes meet Bull's and somehow he manages to push forward a sliver of defiance. Somehow he needs this - he needs to be pushed because then he can show the true colors of his spine and dragon wings. Bull knows, Beowulf can tell. He doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful for that.

"Whatever you say, Boss." Bull replies with a slight nod of his head and a step back.

Beowulf turns and leaves with a shiver escaping his spine and exiting through his lungs.

~

The red lyrium sang a song that resonated deep within his bones. There was sadness as it pulsed through his veins and there was want as it looked to the sky and craved freedom. The sky was marred beyond repair and there was only green to be seen and the clouds were made of demons. The red lyrium lamented the loss and Beowulf watched with horrified eyes. Beside him, the mage made of Tevinter and honey-skin cursed under his breath and took hold of his staff nervously.

"What has Alexius _done_?"

There was betrayal in that question and Beowulf wanted to press for answers. He watches the mage carefully, instead, because he understands the value of personal space and nightmares. He understands that they are connected.

They made their way through winding hallways that looked too much like a maze and felt too much like a prison. It was hollowing to walk upon the same cobblestone floors that the world that was your grave. Two years gone and reappear again. Dorian said it was a real magic trick and Beowulf almost laughed. The sound was choked through fear as they came to the jail cells.

"300 bottles of beer on the wall, 300 bottles of beer." A strained voice all wrong and red and corrupted echoed through the cells. It sounded like Bull, enough to get Beowulf to stop in his tracks, but there was red in his voice where once there hadn't been. There was red deep in his chest and swirling around his head and Beowulf could barely see straight past all the humming and wrong. He found his feet again and came to stand in front of the cell, behind Dorian.

The Qunari he saw slouched against a wall was not Bull. The Qunari he saw - the _man_ he saw - was a husk compared to the warrior that could pull thunderstorms from the sky. The husk in front of him barely registered him with one distant eye but somehow managed to comment. "You're not dead? You're supposed to be dead."

A stake jammed itself through Beowulf's heart and he shook back a step, averting his eyes and counting the red breaths he could feel seeping into his lungs and pooling in his toes.

"This is our future." Dorian explains and Beowulf wants to beg him to take those words back. He wants to beg and beg and beg and _oh please don’t let this be the future_ but his tongue is tied and he can only listen.

"Well, it's _my_ present. And in my _past_ , I definitely saw you two die." Bull makes eye contact with Beowulf and Beowulf's world shakes. There is unrestrained emotion in that gaze and Beowulf knows that he is missing something - somewhere in this timeline something happened between them and there is _emotion_ sparking there now. It is red and wrong and pulsing with dead breaths but there is something there, crushed hope and dead fingers notwithstanding. The gap between them has closed but Beowulf is still struggling for breath behind the venom that laced Bull's words.

"I'm no more dead than you." Beowulf responds with sarcasm because serious is not in his vocabulary at this moment in time. He finds his chest heaving against the red as he stares at Bull with his own mask cracking away and his emotions pooling through.

"Great. Now "dead" and "not-dead" are up for debate. That's wonderful." Bull has found his will to move and he steps through the cage with a great deal of effort. Beowulf can see the thought of _I'm free_ written in his eye too thickly to hide it.

Beowulf moves out of his way with practiced ease and Dorian somehow convinces Bull to come with them. They are fighting Alexius, he says, and Beowulf has to remind himself that _this is not the real Bull_ when Bull fails to get the same glint of combat excitement in his eye. There is a gap there, filled by years of torture, and Beowulf can only imagine what has filled it.

The red pulses beneath their feet as they rush through the enemies and under the bleeding sky. They seal a rift and somehow Beowulf knows that this will not stay their future. He sinks arrows into heads and watches Bull with his axe and Cassandra with her shield held high. Leliana is a husk, too, moving with robotic grace that seems to be practiced in a somber sort of way. Varric hasn't told a single story and Beowulf still doesn't know how to handle Dorian taking this so well. They fight their way through the red and make it to Alexius and it is then that Beowulf can see Dorian _crumble_.

"An hour? That's impossible!"

Actions happened at once and Beowulf could only watch with horrified eyes. The rift was open but enemies were swarming in behind them, banging on the door. One _thud_ and he knew that Varric was down. Second _thud_ and he could picture Cassandra's corpse. Third was followed by a roar of thunder and lightning in a red voice that was still _wrong_ but Beowulf's heart stopped in his chest. A large corpse was thrown through the door and Beowulf's knees shook beneath him.

_"Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame. Andraste, guide me. Maker, take me to your side."_


	6. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blackness consumes him as strong arms wrap around him and there is finally warmth. Red leaves his vision as white and lightning battle. He hears thunder rumble in the distance, followed by a whiskey-voice. He counts his small victories._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really love this. Sorry for the long wait between chapters!

He didn't think that despair could sing. He didn't think that the hollow words could ring in his ears and bleed down his spine. He didn't think that red could grow any dimmer or white could shine any brighter. He didn't think that things could get much worse - but they had and now he was sifting through the remains with ashes falling through his fingers. He was fighting through glowing red Templars and he was watching his comrades fall to the ground around him. He was watching the red blood spill into the white snow and he suddenly _didn't have enough arrows._

"Boss, watch your back!" The words were knives pressing into his ears and he turned with the expression of death and a jaw set in stone and sank another arrow into red. He looked to the shining silver axe and its owner and his eyes begged of forgiveness that the warrior could not give. Instead, the warrior slammed another enemy to the ground and Beowulf shot another imaginary target painted in blood on a Templar forehead. His feet were heavy in the snow and at every turn there was white but he couldn't stop. Somewhere overhead, a dragon roared.

He watched with a heavy heart as bodies fell to the ground around him. He watched with shaking hands and unsteady aim as the Archdemon sauntered towards him and lifted him as if it was nothing. He spat threats in a different color than white or red and the demon roared and snapped his spine against the trebuchet. Thunder cracked underneath his legs and lightning called out for him. His fingers found metal and it burned through the fog and then he was standing. He was shouting for his companions to leave and then he was burning threats through fiery rage at the demon. He was slamming the promise that _they would be back_ down onto him and he punctuated the sentence with a sword straight to the chain.

The end happened all at once. He fell through the layers of what was known and landed on the ground in complete darkness. The white tumbled down around him and fell on him and consumed him. His own blood pooled from wounds and he could only think this is it as he tried to remember lightning. As he tried to remember the whiskey-words and rolling waves. His body slammed to the ground and harsh words slid through his teeth. Ribs broke and shattered and he was left broken and stumbling to his feet.

Somehow, his bow and quiver had fallen with him. He counts his small victories. 

* * *

 

"We have to keep looking for him." Those words are whispered amongst the ranks as they trudge through snow several feet high. The Herald of Andraste must be found and saved because without him, the whole Inquisition was a joke. The Herald had saved them and so now it was their turn - equivalent exchange and all that.

"He's gone." One voice said several days in. No one replies because to do so would be to acknowledge the horrible truth of what could very well be. No one wants to think it so they don't but actively avoiding thoughts is easier said than done.

"There has to be a miracle left." Prayers are said now as they find more snow. They find more and mar it with their presence and somehow that isn't enough to prove that they are alive. Footprints are just a reminder that there is one set missing and that there is no hope left to pray for him. They have used all their energy trudging up mountains.

"The Herald cannot be dead." One voice left. No one replies.

* * *

 

The tunnels were completely silent. There was such a raw lack of sound that Beowulf thought he could hear his heartbeat through the walls. He knew that it was breaking his ribs with each breath he took because the pain was constantly searing through his whole body. He knew that there was a red trail behind him and he tried not to think about the irony of that - _mother always over your shoulder_ \- and swallows the bile affiliated with those thoughts.

He loses track of time. He moves for days, he thinks, because if he stops he will freeze. Already his bones have turned to ice and he is left walking on fragile toes and a shattering spine. Already he can see his breath through every tunnel no matter how close he pulls his coat around him. His fingers wrapped around his bow are frozen there, he thinks, turning to an ice sculpture. He wonders if they would fine him like that, frozen in the tunnels and preserved perfectly. He wonders what kind of expression would be left on his face.

The nightmares invade his waking hours when he can no longer walk straight. Then there is a red haired woman pressing gentle touches to his wounds and pleading for him to continue. He tries to tell her that she _is not real_ but that would be dishonoring her memory, wouldn’t it? He feels as though if he says it, it will suddenly be true and that the white will slam down around him with a vengeance. With that thought he can feel his throat closing in.

The red leads him out of the tunnels and he _can't breathe_ at the sight of all the white in front of him. He falls to his knees and finally loses his grip on his bow - on his last tether to the world - and he is completely consumed by the nightmares. His father presses white hands against his body where once his mother had intended to heal and he breaks completely. He can feel his ribs shatter and he can feel his teeth grind together and chip into his throat. His father presses their horns together and there is sandpaper rushing down his spine and pinning him to the ground. He falls into the white and can’t convince himself to get back up.

Red enters his vision later and he bites at it with sharp teeth. He tries to fend off the hope because at least then he could die swiftly. With a shred of hope his death is prolonged. He bites at it and hopes that the malice can shove it away. Instead, it pulls him to his feet and somehow he is walking again. His footprints mar the snow behind him and he wishes that he could have scarred the original white.

Campfires become his solace. He finds three that are too cold to be recent but then there is _one_. There is one where he presses his hand to the embers and relishes in the warmth that is left. He leeches it and weeps when it is gone. His tears freeze against the wind as he walks but there is finally hope deep in his chest again. He tries to ignore the sandpaper grit trying to rub it away.

The second fire he finds is warmer. He looks ahead and can see flames and then he finds his voice somewhere in the recesses of his mind. A strangled cry rips from his throat as he tries to find the energy to press forward. The snow seems twice as heavy and his ice-bones have never felt so thick. He tries to breathe normally but eventually his lungs cave in against the shouts he is roaring. He falls to his knees in the white with one last sound and prays to whatever god is still listening that they heard him.

Blackness consumes him as strong arms wrap around him and there is finally warmth. Red leaves his vision as white and lightning battle. He hears thunder rumble in the distance, followed by a whiskey-voice. He counts his small victories.


	7. The First Step Is Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daggers found his skin and ice peeled away the layers. Beowulf writhed under the other body, dragging his fingernails against skin and desperately trying to **hurt** him back. He writhed and clawed and **begged** because he had no other words left. He sinks into the white sheets and tries to shove the white hair away from his ears and his skin and away from **him**. He needed to get away but the other man only pounded harder into him and buried him in pain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so there is some Qunlat in this chapter that I did take some liberty with and made it kinda fit the situation I needed it to fit. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Imekari: Child_  
>  _Imekari-saam: Child Nothing (i used it more in the context of a "nothing child"_  
>  _Maraas Imekari: "A child bleating without meaning." (I basically used this to mean "you will never say anything worthwhile" or "you are always make noise") (basically I used this as a form of derogatory term.)_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If you feel that I used the Qunlat wrong, please tell me - I'm always open to criticism and ways to make my writing better. 
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy the chapter!

"Beowulf." Her voice is honey and his eyes slide open. He moves his weak bones and curls in on himself, broken ribs and shattered teeth aching and pressing as hot as fire into his lungs. He closes his eyes again and the world slides into darkness.

"Beowulf." Her voice is candlelight now and he opens his eyes to see gold filling the room. He pushes himself up, then, and finds that breathing is easier. His hands are still broken knuckles and ragged fingernails but he is whole. He scans the room and can see nothing but the warm light of her and slowly he begins to realize that reality has been contorted to a dream. He looks with heavy eyelids over his shoulder.

"My sweet _imekari_." Her voice wraps around him and she presses her fingernails gently to his scalp, cradling his head to her chest. He wraps bruised arms around her torso and relishes in the comfort. The smell of Crystal Grace is still thick on her hair and he curls into the smell. It is the smell of what home could have been and it is the smell of her completely - unmarked by him and as warm as the radiant sun. He tries to ignore his white hair mixing with her red and pushes the thought of the deadly combination out of his mind and remembers that he is red now. He is red in her memory and he can curl in on her and keep this memory alive. He tries to change the white to red but the dream is stubborn.

"It is not your time yet." She presses a kiss to his temple and he takes a shuddering breath. She stands and he goes with her. Their hands stay linked but where he is flesh she is only bone. A chill runs down his spine.

"What do you mean?" His brows furrowed and he stares at her with curious eyes. She raises a timid hand and presses it to his cheek. Her face fills with sorrow as her oceanic eyes begin to fill with tears.

"You are not supposed to join me so soon, _imekari_." Her hands press to his chest, covering bruises and warming the ice. He stares with a hollow mind. "You have much left to do in this life."

He raises his eyes in time to see her step away and begin to fade. Her long hair blows in the wind, coiling red around her skeletal figure. He reaches out a hand but is met with shadow as she begins to take steps away. Her warm features turn to rotten flesh that falls to the ground. Her bones are bruised and broken and he begins to see hands made of shadows pressing to her hips. He stops in his tracks.

" _Imekari-saam._ " The name is poison said from violent lips and Beowulf recoils. He falls to his knees and drowns in the shadows and suddenly there are hands on him and he can practically feel his bones breaking already. "Submit to your fate, _boy_."

Daggers found his skin and ice peeled away the layers. Beowulf writhed under the other body, dragging his fingernails against skin and desperately trying to _hurt_ him back. He writhed and clawed and _begged_ because he had no other words left. He sinks into the white sheets and tries to shove the white hair away from his ears and his skin and away from _him_. He needed to get away but the other man only pounded harder into him and buried him in pain.

"You will never amount to anything, boy. You are nothing but _maraas imekari_." A hand pressed over Beowulf's mouth as his sounds died against the white flesh. His toes curled and his fists wrapped around white sheets and he began to drown.

_"Beowulf-"_

_"Herald -"_

Voices pressed through the shadows and Beowulf was reeling to his feet, whirling in the darkness. He reached out with shaking hands and was met with a punch to the face and his mother screaming. He fell down, his whole body shaking, and fists continued to connect with him. A kick to the ribs and he heard bone snap and his lungs stopped working. The reality pressed through as his mother wailed again, the sound shattering his ears.

His eyes flew open to see the snow falling around him and he could still feel the bruises on his skin. He cried out and arched because the white was too much and he had never felt so much closing in on him. He could barely hear his ragged breaths rasping through the air but the breaths that he was taking were ice cold and as sharp as knives. He cried out again as white consumed his vision and another scream tore from his mother's lungs.

"Beowulf!" The voice was urgent and it was lightning crackling against reality. It was a thunderstorm sliding into his head and Beowulf reeled and was left scrambling away from the noise of it all. The whiskey was filling his veins as a hand pressed against his wrist and his bones finally stopped screaming at him. Above him horns could be seen and he had never felt so trapped in his life.

"No no no no - stop stop it!" His voice was weak and it was pitiful that he was begging. His father was staring at him with wicked eyes as he pulled at Beowulf's hair. Beowulf could feel his neck snap under the pressure.

"You're not there, Beowulf. You are with the Inquisition. You are safe." The voice continued and lightning shoved the father away. The electricity swallowed Beowulf whole and finally he looked at the man above him.

"He's hurting her - he's hurting her and there's _nothing I can do!_ " Tears pooled from his eyes and streamed down his face. A hand pressed against his chest and finally he could begin to feel reality. "She's already dead."

He spoke to himself and the Fade that was trying to consume him. He spoke the words because he needed to hear them and because it would break him if anyone else dared to speak them. They had to be said from his lips because the first step was acceptance. He pictured a noose and suddenly the snow was white again and he was drowning.

"Beowulf. I'm right here - you are not where ever you think you are."

And for whatever reasons, those words brought comfort. Those words sank into his heart and down to his toes. He curled his fingers and took a shaking breath as his eyes fell shut. A hand slipped into his and more words were whispered but he was too far gone to hear them.

Hanging from a tree, a noose loomed in the distance. Beowulf shoved it from his mind and turned his back.


	8. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We can work on that." The promise of _together_ was left unspoken. Beowulf didn't know how to react to it. Instead, he took a step back and tried to avert his eyes again. His throat dried out and breaths came in razors now. "Drinks are on me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sometimes think that short chapters are better than long. I hope this turned out alright - I am neutral on how I feel about this chapter. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think.

He woke abruptly. He was torn from the abyss of unconsciousness, his head spinning as he sat up sharply. His ribs cried out in protest and his shoulder ached in agony. He inhaled a sharp breath and shut his eyes against the ice that filled his lungs. The white and bright sun were too much to take in all at once and the hands of the nightmare still gripped at his ribs. He bit his lip and tasted blood.

"Boss." The word was said in a gruff voice that held undertones of emotions as tumultuous as the sea. Beowulf felt his body go limp as he sagged back against the cot and his bones lost their stability. He could feel the sharp breaths still struggling between his lungs. He didn't make eye contact with the man beside him.

"How many did we lose?" The words were punishment slipping from his consciousness as he tried to be strong. He wanted to look out into the white and count but the snowflakes overruled him in nightmares. He stared at the top of the tent with hollow eyes.

"What happened out there, Boss?" Bull was suddenly in his field of vision and his expression was uncharacteristically worried. Beowulf tried not to read too much into the emotions brewing between them. He twisted his head again to look away, remembering too late that he had horns still in his skull. They created sandpaper against the cot and he hissed as memories pressed to his spine.

"Where are the advisors?" Beowulf dodged with another question. He didn't miss the sigh of annoyance that left Bull's chest harshly.

" _Beowulf_." His name was said as a threat and then the nightmare had a hold of his heart once more and reality was slipping away. Beowulf lurched up again and pushed himself to his feet. Too late did he remember his aches and his frayed nerves. He fell to his knees with a strangled cry.

" _Stop_." His voice was unrecognizable beyond the pain. "Stop it. Stop asking questions _you don't need to know the answer to_."

Bull watched him from the other side of the tent with a blank expression sliding in place over his once worried features. He moved his large body, hunched over in the small tent, and moved with choppy movements to the entrance of the tent. Snow blew in, whirling around him in harsh spirals, and white ate Beowulf alive. He closed his eyes against the memory and tried to push him out of his vision. His mother screamed in the distance.

"You know where to find me." Bull's voice was thick and if Beowulf didn't know any better, he would have thought that the Qunari was talking past emotion. If Beowulf didn't know any better, he would have thought that the Qunari had actually cared.

Bull left Beowulf in the tent and it was then that Beowulf was aware that a healer had entered sometime during their exchange. Between fearful glances at the entrance and angry glares at her unwilling patient, she managed to push him back into bed. Beowulf tried not to think of his mother's caring hands as she tended to his wounds and handed him broth.

Blackness claimed him once again and trailing behind it were chaotic thoughts of Bull. 

* * *

 

The next time he woke, he woke alone. His tattered armor was clinging to his body against the chill but his bones were no longer made of ice. He heard yelling and arguing outside, angry voices carried by the biting wind. He pushed himself into a sitting position, body finally listening to his commands without searing pain. Mother Giselle anchored him to reality.

He pressed out of the tent and into the white. He stiffened his spine and ignored the threats that travelled in whispers along the wind. He clenched his hands into fists and felt his nails break the skin. He set his jaw and he faced the white, looking for the right words to sooth his advisors. He stood in the biting wind and ignore his mother's screams in the distance.

The song carried through the valley with eerie volume as the Inquisition sang their allegiance to their cause. 

* * *

 

"Bull." Days later he spoke the name again. He stood in front of the small Charger shelter with averted eyes and shaking hands. He looked at the green grass and was grateful that white could not make it within the walls. The feet in front of him pressed closer and he looked up with startled eyes.

"Finally feel like talking, Boss?" Iron Bull loomed over him - _ignore the coincidence_ \- and pressed into the sliver of personal space remaining. Beowulf tried to stand his ground.

"I'm sorry." An apology late and maybe misplaced. The Iron Bull quirked his lip.

"Don't apologize. Talk to me." The question of _trust me_ was deep in the undertones. Beowulf was still wide-eyed and frozen. Breaths were coming more ragged now.

"I don't know how." The words were an explanation in short. They were the beginning of something more but Beowulf didn't know how to continue. His hands were shaking as he stayed with the Bull, personal space voided. The Iron Bull made another face, this one unreadable.

"We can work on that." The promise of _together_ was left unspoken. Beowulf didn't know how to react to it. Instead, he took a step back and tried to avert his eyes again. His throat dried out and breaths came in razors now. "Drinks are on me."


	9. Take The Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Beowulf." The Iron Bull leaned in closer and lightning licked at Beowulf's lips. Beowulf leaned into the touch and craved more. "Let me lead."
> 
> Thunder rolled over Beowulf and Lightning pressed to his skin as Whiskey ran down his throat. He let The Iron Bull lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so plot wise this did kinda take a spin-off from the actual plot of Inquisition. I like it for who my character is, though, and think it will allow for some nice character development on Beowulf's part. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The first sip of alcohol was awkward and it burned going down his throat. He let a groan slip through his teeth and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. The taste burned in the back of his mind, coupling with the nightmares. He curled his fingers around the mug of ale and averted his eyes to the swirling alcoholic liquid.

"You lost someone close to you." The words were not a question but Beowulf winced at their inquiry nonetheless. He pressed his lips to the rim of his mug and inhaled slowly. The material was cool against his lips.

"My mother." The words were the truth and the words stung. They were violently put into the world and whispered against alcohol and suddenly it was _real_. The loss was anchored in his chest and it was _real_. The noose was swinging from the tree. "Two years ago." And then that wound was pouring blood and he was left reeling from the shock.

The silence brewed as fire slid down his throat again. The Iron Bull watched him with a careful eye and a calculating expression. Beowulf never made eye contact - he studied the patterns in the wooden counter with an interest almost unhealthy. His mind was spinning through memories and nightmares and he was desperately trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his chest. The silence stayed as thick as fog between them.

"You have nightmares." Another statement and Beowulf was looking at the Ben-Hasserath spy with a questioning glance and curiosity replacing his fear. He stared with eyes boring into The Iron Bull's skull and wondered just how well the other Qunari could read him. He wondered just how readable he was.

"What gave that away?" His voice was sarcastic because to admit to the nightmares was to admit that he had a weakness. He looked again to the swirling liquid and pressed his fears back deep within his chest. He hoped that his mask of sarcasm was strong enough.

"Boss." The name was a warning. Beowulf ignored it.

"I'm the leader of the Inquisition, Bull. Nightmares are less important than an Archdemon." His voice was gruff beyond the strained words. His knuckles turned white from his grip on the mug and he bit his lip harshly. He moved to push away from the counter, ready for this conversation to end. Instead, Bull pressed a hand to his arm.

"That doesn't mean you have to keep it all pent up." Bull's voice was gentle but Beowulf couldn't focus past the fingers on his skin. He lurched his arm away with a strangled noise in his throat.

" _Don't_." And then it was Beowulf with the warning in his words and the threat in his eyes. It was Beowulf with the demons on his skin and the expressions shifting over his face. It was Beowulf with the nightmares free of his ribcage and a mug full of alcohol that could not begin to drown it all. Then it was Beowulf on his feet, body taut like a bowstring.

"Don't what, Boss?" Bull met his eyes and the words were a _challenge_.

Beowulf studied the other man intently. He let his eyes scan from horn to horn and down to the muscular chest. He locked onto the functioning eye and then he flitted to the eyepatch. Behind the Qunari, his Chargers were shouting rambunctiously. Beowulf noticed that Krem had shifted closer to Bull, ready for a signal. Beowulf watched the other Qunari and tried to shove the memories from his mind before his legs gave out. He tried to focus his strength into his bones but somehow the nightmares had hollowed them out and there was very little left to fight with. His eyes fell again to Bull as he realized that there was a hand over his.

"Bull -"

"Talk to me, Boss."

"Stop calling me that." Another warning. Bull made a face.

"You prefer Inquisitor, then?" Bull was pushing him and Beowulf _knew_. He knew by the quirk in the Qunari's eyebrow and the tilt of his head. Just a touch of cocky to be thrown in and mess up the realization of _you were a spy_.

"Beowulf. Beowulf is fine." His body sagged back into the barstool and his hand went limp under Bull's. His lips stung with the remnants of his name.

"Beowulf." The name was spoken in whiskey words with thunder rumbling underneath. Lightning cracked across his skin and bled into the back of his mouth. The warrior stood strong. "How did your mother die?"

Beowulf lurched at the words and felt himself falling into the nightmare. _She died of heartbreak_ was on the tip of his tongue but _murdered_ was close behind it. He wanted to speak of the white that had killed the red and of the white that had corrupted his body and soul. He wanted to speak of the white that haunted him still and the mountains outside of Skyhold that were a bit too familiar. He wanted to scream _he killed her_ at the top of his lungs and stick an arrow through the bastards heart. He wanted to free himself of the white sheets and the white hair and the white demon that haunted him.

Instead, he was paralyzed. "He-He…" The word was choked but it was a beginning. The word was enough to give Bull something. "She tried to protect me - she always _tried_ , but he-" White cut off his vision and he coiled in on himself.

Bull didn't say anything. He pressed a questioning hand to a shoulder blade and Beowulf was shocked to find that it was not repulsion that rolled down his spine. A dry sob heaved through his lungs and he could barely believe the sound. It shattered through the tavern atmosphere and echoed through his mind.

Bull moved him slowly and his body obeyed before his mind could comprehend. He walked with a robotic body behind Bull, a hand always on his shoulder. He tried to ignore the contact but it seeped in through his bones and lead him to a room. He dimly registered the change of environment and the thicker atmosphere - now his pain was undiluted and completely consuming. Bull was something to lean on but he offered no comfort.

"Beowulf." The word was soft and whispered. It shocked Beowulf out of his mind and back into the small room, facing Bull. He noticed then that he was sitting on the bed, facing the Qunari with wide eyes. He glanced frantically to the sheets, relieved to see that they weren't white. "You need to trust someone."

But _trust_ was a trick word, in his mind. Trust was a trick because it had been abused so much in the past and it was a trick because he could not give it to anyone. It was a trick because trust was supposed to be loved and be sincere but in his mind it was white and laced with venom. In his mind, trust was the base of all evils. Trust was a trick question.

"He ruined that." He answers cryptically because now his sarcasm has twisted to malicious. It was his last attempt at something resembling a shield. The hand moves to his again.

"It can be fixed." The promise of together was left unspoken because it didn’t need to be. Beowulf looked with shaking eyes and felt another sob tremble through his lungs and through his lips. He felt his whole body begin to ache with the need for something better than the existence he was leading. The hand moved again and this time Beowulf lurched away. The hand had moved for his heart and that was too intimate and too familiar. Touch was tough.

"How?" The word was whispered as he still watched the hand. It moved again to his heart. This time he let it.

"Trust me."

Beowulf looked up to lock eyes with Bull. He searched for something anything to tell him that this was some joke and that maybe it was stupid to trust again. He knew that trust would be misused and that somehow he would again be the victim. He searched the eyes for anything that could be used as a way out. He found nothing.

"How?" He asked again but this had different connotations. This was an acceptance of fate and the first step to showing that he was ready. This was the beginning and it pulsed through his veins and hummed through the air between them. The whiskey-warrior hummed deep in his chest and pressed just a hair closer. Lightning snapped in Beowulf's mind as he reached out to touch the thunder.

"Let me lead." The answer was simple but the emotions in his eye were not. Beowulf bit his lip.

"I'm not-not good with -"

"Beowulf." The Iron Bull leaned in closer and lightning licked at Beowulf's lips. Beowulf leaned into the touch and craved more. "Let me lead."

Thunder rolled over Beowulf and Lightning pressed to his skin as Whiskey ran down his throat. He let The Iron Bull lead.


	10. In Regard to Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The trust became tangible first. It breathed and lived in the air between them, crisp and new - there were ropes stringing Beowulf to Bull and drawing him in. The ropes were frayed, fragile and a figment of the metaphor he was spinning. The trust was what drew him in with darker promises whispered against lips with the crack of lightning following behind in the remnants of his shattering thoughts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so I know that this is out of order according to the game but I really like this nonetheless. I am going to try and make sure that my story still follows the plot of the game but just more loosely.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The trust became tangible first. It breathed and lived in the air between them, crisp and new - there were ropes stringing Beowulf to Bull and drawing him in. The ropes were frayed, fragile and a figment of the metaphor he was spinning. The trust was what drew him in with darker promises whispered against lips with the crack of lightning following behind in the remnants of his shattering thoughts.

Touch was embers against his skin. There were fingers pressed against his wrists and there were nightmares close behind buried in his veins. They hissed against his canines and scraped along his tongue - Lightning shoved them all away.

There were words whispered in the heat of the night that pushed deep into his skin but fingertips were only allowed to graze the sensitive flesh. Bull asked if he could count the scars and Beowulf lurched away with the snap of a figment rope. Words were whispered against collarbones because somehow lips were okay. Whiskey could pour over his skin and it was enough to burn away the nightmares.

"I have a world to save." His lips formed the revelation against muscled flesh and suddenly hands were cradling his face. There was a reverence in the action that kept him still. The man before him was foreign and new and there were sparks flowing across every inch of him. The reverence of his actions twisted around the frayed ropes of Beowulf's trust and pulled them tighter around the thunderous warrior.

"You can't do that if you're not whole." The words were punctuated with a kiss and the roll of thunder. The chill ran deep down Beowulf's spine as he submitted and tied his trust tight around Bull's horns. His fingertips curled into the man's hips as they pressed against one another. Trust managed to wrap around them both and coil into the heat of the moment that snapped in the air.

"I haven't been whole for a long time, Bull." Beowulf offered the confession with a bite to separate their lips as he took a step away. Strong arms prevented him and panic momentarily flitted into his eyes and smacked against his ribcage with the faltered beat of his heart. The arms moved the second realization hit and rolled into the muscles that were trained with a spy's grace. This was a delicate thing.

Silence filled the room as each studied the other in wait of the next action. Beowulf was wide-eyed and shaking, his skin still tingling with the remnants of lightning. He could still taste Bull on his tongue and wanted _more_ of whatever _this_ was. Fingers traced along Beowulf's hip and left a trail of fire behind. Silence ate away at their slow breaths and rattled in Beowulf's ribs.

The spy moved first - the change in body language was instantaneous and shocking and it sank to the pit of Beowulf's stomach - and pressed Beowulf down against the mattress. Beowulf breathed easier as it was straw and tan that melted around him and not the white of a hot iron. He let hands move along his body and he fell into each kiss and arched against his delicate spine. He pushed the nightmares from his skull and focused on the _feeling_ of now.

"You need a distraction." The words were muttered against his neck in a husky tone. Beowulf made an indistinct noise as his reply.

"Are you that distraction?" The venom in his bite was meant to sting and get the other man away. If this was what was going to happen between them - if this was their fate -

"Do you want me to be?" One eye locked with his and Beowulf shattered against the realization that _he got a say in this_. He pressed one shaking hand against Bull's chest. He tried to remind himself to _breathe._

"You - I don't - is this your form of therapy?" The sarcastic remark was said between clattering teeth and with a shaky laugh misplaced at the end. Green eyes blazed with a thousand emotions as a lump formed in his throat and he waited for the end to come. He waited for his trust to be torn again and he waited for the other man to pull away as abruptly as this had all begun.

"It's effective." Came the simple reply with a lovely smirk that had Beowulf's heart stumbling. Lighting leaned in for a kiss and Beowulf timidly responded. "And pretty damn good for both participants."

Beowulf felt the laugh rumble from his chest before he could identify what the sound was. He felt his lips spread into a genuine smile before he could remember how those muscles worked. He felt his chest bubble with an emotion and action so unfamiliar it left him reeling in the after-effects. The smile stayed and widened as Bull matched it with one of his own.

"How is this going to work?" Beowulf bit at the corner of Bull's jaw and smirked at the deep growl it got him. Bull pressed him back down to the mattress - carefully, _oh so carefully_ \- and pinned him there. His eye flooded with a devious glint.

"You are going to let me do all the work." A hand trailed down his ribs and landed at his hip. The other tangled into his hair. "You are going to tell me immediately if I do something you don't like." This was punctuated by a kiss to his Adam's apple and a bite to his pulse. "You say _Katoh_ and we stop. No questions asked."

Bull's hand tightened in his hair and pulled back harshly, arching Beowulf's neck and exposing it completely. Beowulf hissed a harsh breath through clenched teeth as his eyes were forced to the ceiling and Bull's grip tightened on his hip. He reminded himself to breathe.

"Don't - Don't tie me up with anything." Beowulf choked out the words as torn white sheets invaded his memories and the scars ached on his wrists. He gasped against Bull's lips as the Qunari snapped him out of his own head.

"Got it." Hands moved to Beowulf's and moved them to the headboard, wrapping Beowulf's fingers around the wood. "Don't let go." The words were an order between demanding teeth. Beowulf bit his lip to stop a smirk.

"Or what? You'll punish me?" The words were an explosion of deviance that had been caged in Beowulf's chest. They were everything that he had not been for years - they were the oppression freeing itself from his every cell. There was a hint of joy in their syllables and Beowulf's walls _almost_ came crashing down completely.The words were met with a rumble of a response from Bull.

" _Yes_." He hissed the words against a collarbone and sharp teeth sank into the sensitive flesh. Beowulf yelped, fingernails digging into the wood of his headboard. His mind flashed white as nightmares crawled inside his skull. He shoved them away with the memory of laughter and of Bull.

"Okay." His consent was a breath whispered in the night. Bull caged it to himself and began.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Beowulf."


	11. Observations in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The words they shared were of a broken language. There as communication in their bodies and there were secrets said against each other's lips. Teeth could punctuate the truth just as effectively as a pen. Their breath could mingle and create a paragraph of epiphanies just as effectively as they could speak the syllables._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short chapter (in my opinion) but I love what I wrote and didn't want to risk adding more and having it turn out awkward. So, enjoy the brevity of it all. I know that I loved writing it - also, this probably means that there will be more in the future from Bull's POV. I really liked writing him.

Beowulf was a broken man with tattered wings. He was red against the bleakness of the world and he shone like a deity - fitting for all the reverence placed upon his shoulders. Beowulf was a tangled web of tragedy and trust issues. His nerves were frayed and bruised and his body was the canvas on which the scars still breathed. They lined his skin as a reminder too dark for words and as a nightmare placed on the very surface of his skin. Bull bit at the scars on Beowulf's hips and was rewarded with a noise that sang from deep within the rogue's chest. There was inspiration for poetry in that noise and the way his hips twisted had Bull been more romantically inclined.

The scars that lined Beowulf's wrists were adorned with layers of self-hate. The originals were a white line now plastered with the red of his own revenger and responsibilities that had boiled through the torment of his fingernails. There were nights of deep despair hidden in the veins and their sorrow flowed freely through his bloodstream. Bull moved his hands over the corrupted canvas with a grace that was learned - _earned_ and not given - and pressed all the right nerves. He counted the freckles with his tongue and relished in the laughter received when he stumbled upon the discovery that the Inquisitor, in all his unwanted glory, was ticklish. There was a spot between kneecap and thigh that could make him squirm and _laugh_ \- an inch or two higher and his moans reverberated off the walls.

Beowulf was made of good intentions. His smile was candlelight at its finest and his compassion was enough to fuel the Fade. His eyes held the lives of thousands begging for a life worth living - his shoulders carried that heavy burden and his legs stumbled him forward. Here, Bull drowned every one of Beowulf's senses. Beowulf's pupils absorbed the green and his worries were shoved away. His shoulders sloped and arched with his back as Bull made him cry out mindlessly. His legs wrapped around Bull's waist and all the other Qunari could do was marvel at their grace and endlessly freckled expanse. He roared his pleasure and Beowulf arched with his tattered wings and took flight with Bull.

The words they shared were of a broken language. There as communication in their bodies and there were secrets said against each other's lips. Teeth could punctuate the truth just as effectively as a pen. Their breath could mingle and create a paragraph of epiphanies just as effectively as they could speak the syllables.

Beowulf's fingers uncurled from the headboard with a heavy exhale from his lungs. Bull opened his mouth to reprimand and remind him of _punishment_ , but fingers hooked around his horns and pulled him in and then he was the one lost. He moved against the dragon that had found his confidence and gladly played the game. He let the dragon breathe its newly discovered fire and relished in the heat. Their broken language spoke of want and more and he couldn’t distinguish between voices. Teeth sunk in and he hissed Qunlat - the green returned to Beowulf's eyes and then _Bull remembered._ He held Beowulf's gaze firmly and peeled the rogue's hands from his horns.

"Told you not to let go."

" _Bull_." The dragon's voice was filled with want and husky with desire. Bull pinned the dragon down and kissed every inch of him.

"Seems to me you've got issues following orders." Bull pushed against Beowulf's wrists and covered the scars - he traced them with his thumb as he kissed at Beowulf's freckles. Beowulf groaned.

"Usually I'm the one giving them." He dared with a bite and a roll of his hips. Bull growled.

"In here, you follow _my_ orders." The sharp gasp was submission enough and Bull took that to continue. " _Boss_ " And that title was so much more than a taunt. Beowulf laughed breathlessly and sank his fingernails into the wood once more as the title rolled over his skin and sank into his chest. He let it sit there for a moment more before he caught his breath and shoved away the venom.

They would talk later, of that Bull was sure. They would talk of the title and how it sank between Beowulf's teeth at an uncomfortable angle and how it turned his bones to glass. They would talk of how Bull left marks just below where the collar of The Inquisitor's shirt sat - because he _knew_ \- and they would talk of so much more. They would talk of how Beowulf had spread his wings and learned to fly and they would talk in hushed whispers about the nightmares he was fleeing. They would talk later.

Of that, The Iron Bull was sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> editing this chapter made me truly realize how short it is.  
> sorry. longer chapter next time :P


	12. Crysallis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Red**_  
>  comes only in the form of his own blood, now. The man - _do not think " **father** " _\- bites across his skin and draws the red out of hiding. He scratches at veins and pulls at old scars - he carves new messages into Beowulf's wrists and the red pools in Beowulf's palms. _She_ is no longer red. She is a fraying noose and blooming violets growing at decaying feet. _Red_ is the color of pain that has begun to brew in his veins. _Red_ is the color of passion that the thunderstorm leaves in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a long time coming and I am _so sorry_ about that. Life got the better of me and then so did writer's block - basically, it was just a mess. I am so sorry to have kept you all waiting!
> 
> Hope you like it - lord knows it took long enough to write.

_**Breathe**_.

He counts the sobs that shake through his core and he counts the wheezing noise that is breath meant to fill his lungs. He sees stars as air staggers through his lungs even less. His fingers have gone numb and tendrils of darkness have crept into his vision. Around him, there is only _white_.

_**Thunderstorms** _

are a distant memory but he would give anything to hear their rumbling voice again. He would give anything to be held in strong arms - he would do anything to escape the white. Instead, green eyes meet his and white hair brushes against his shoulders. All of it is too familiar and he knows that they are _ghosts_ haunting him but he cannot shake them. They have latched onto his spine and taken root. A body presses against his and every muscle goes tense and his lungs cease to consume air.

_**Mirrors** _

are _ghosts_ come to life and staring at him. Mirrors are his _father_ with evil hands crawling through the Fade, lurching back into his life. Mirrors are a portal to his past and he can see only demons locked away within them. The mirrors in his chambers have sheets thrown over them. The sheets over the mirrors are of the finest silk but The Inquisitor - _The Herald of The People_ \- sleeps on plain cotton. The symbolism is something he tries to ignore.

_**Red** _

comes only in the form of his own blood, now. The man - _do not think " **father** "_ \- bites across his skin and draws the red out of hiding. He scratches at veins and pulls at old scars - he carves new messages into Beowulf's wrists and the red pools in Beowulf's palms. _She_ is no longer red. She is a fraying noose and blooming violets growing at decaying feet. _Red_ is the color of pain that has begun to brew in his veins. _Red_ is the color of passion that the thunderstorm leaves in its wake.

_**Drums** _

are the rhythm of his heartbeat when lightning cracks across his skin. He can feel it with every crack and it sends a fire through his nerves. _Drums_ are the beat of his wings as he stretches them and soars through the sky - drums are the sound of his thundering roar as he finally wakes and _finds_ himself. _Thunderstorms_ are strong enough to evoke drum beats within him and he thinks that he is the accompanying thunder that rolls with the storm clouds. He is a dragon that has just learned how to fly. 

The sky wraps around him and he can feel the freedom boiling in his veins. He can feel the memories pressing against his skin but their toxicity is fading and the thunderstorm reigns. They speak in code and it is a language easily understood between two misunderstood hearts. 

~~

"Beowulf." The words run across his jaw with heated breath. He feels laughter bubble from his lungs.

"You have an odd technique for interrogation." It isn't a question and teeth bite at his shoulder. He hisses and his thoughts short-circuit. 

"It's effective." Bull pulls away and his smile is blinding - Beowulf's heart stutters. "You haven't talked about 'him' yet."

Beowulf growls a curse and tries to push away. The word is on the tip of his tongue as his memories rip fear from his chest and shove it up his throat. Bull holds firm and the word dies back into the pleasure searing through his veins. Beowulf bites at lips that claim his own and finds that the sting of fingernails digging into his hips is one that he could grow accustomed to.

"Not exactly something I want to talk about." He breathes as a confession. Bull presses his fingernails deeper and draws blood. Beowulf growls deep in his chest.

"You can't hide your demons forever." Bull warns with a thrust. Beowulf gasps sharp air and arches his back, pressing completely against Bull. Their bodies align and Beowulf can taste the passion. Bull bites at the tip of his ear. "You have to open up eventually."

And the broken, coded language strikes Beowulf in the heart. He can see it in Bull's eye - the emotion brewing so heavy that neither of them can deny it. He can see it with every look that the man gives him - he can feel it with every touch they share. The words are meant to be hollow and meant to have their meaning hidden but he can taste the passion in them. He can see it in Bull's eyes and comes to the realization of what it is that makes his heart beat. The realization jolts down to his toes and leaves only warmth in its wake. 

"Two can play at that game." Beowulf smiles back with sharp teeth and meaning laced within his smirk. He wraps both his hands around Bull's horns and pulls the man in against him. They both drown in each other. 

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine." Bull's voice is husky and it is whiskey in his throat. Beowulf feels laughter bubble from his lungs again and the sound trills through his dark chambers. Bull smiles against his neck and plants another kiss.

"Deal."


	13. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long - please forgive me.

Okay so it has seriously been almost a year since I've even written anything for this story. That being said, I am going to start rewriting it soon. A lot of the first chapters will remain the same - I plan to edit and keep all the way through chapter eight. That being said, I have done some major character development for Beowulf and also worked out some of the plot holes that I was having issues with before. So, the chapters may look the same, but I promise that they are going to be at least slightly different. They're going to shoot more for the plot that I wanted this story to have originally and stop circling around the subject like they did before. 

I plan to keep this version of the story up for a while, even as I begin posting the new version. I don't know if I'll keep it up forever as reference or if it will get taken down eventually - that will be a decision for later. As I begin posting the new version, I make absolutely no promises for timely updates. Please keep that in mind - I do however wholeheartedly want you guys to pester me for the updates and motivate me to actually write the chapter. Please feel free to talk to me in the comments and message me - I love talking to you guys!

Alright, I think I've blabbered on for long enough. Keep an eye out for the new version of this story and go give it a read. Thank you!


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